


just about starving tonight

by orphan_account



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Closeted Character, First Time, Internalized Homophobia, Other, POV Second Person, Prom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 21:12:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11471763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Have you done this before?” you ask.“Duh,” she says. “Have you?”





	just about starving tonight

**Author's Note:**

> i'm going to be honest i DID NOT realize the irony of a gay dude having sex with a girl in a literal closet until about halfway through anyway just take this
> 
> title is from "dancing in the dark" by bruce springsteen

You get to know — _know_ , in the Biblical sense, you can’t say shit like _bone_ or _bang_ or _fuck_ because that’s not really what it was — a girl for the first time in a broom closet with Bruce Springsteen blaring in the background. She makes your stomach lurch and your palms sweat and you hope that’s a good thing.

Her name is Kirsten, Kirsten Russo, and she’s Dennis’ prom date, and also a 7-almost-7.5 according to him. They were a good-looking couple when they showed up — Dennis wasn’t sweaty, and he smelled like Drakkar Noir. Kirsten called you Ronnie, Dennis called you Mac, and when you looked at them, you finally felt comfortable feeling — whatever it was when you looked at Dennis.

“Mac!” Dennis had said when he saw you across the gym, and ambled over with Kirsten and clapped you on the back. “‘Sup, buddy?”

“Nothing much,” you said.

“This was a lot lamer than I thought it was gonna be,” Dennis said, looking around. “I mean, like, _prom_ , y’know? Like, it’s supposed to be fun. And I tried to dance, but, y’know, tough crowd to work up. It’s like they’re all on fucking sedatives.”

The other students were actually pretty animated, talking in clusters around the gym. Adriano’s crew was by the punch bowl, howling with laughter at something he said, something probably dumb and also really, really cool.

“I snuck some alcohol in,” Dennis whispered. He opened his suit jacket to reveal a water bottle containing what must’ve been vodka. “I might need it if the party keeps being this fucking slow.”

“Yeah,” you agreed.

Kirsten seemed bored out of her mind, glancing around anywhere but at Dennis, and there was a moment where she looked you up and down and quirked an eyebrow. You couldn’t tell if it was a good quirk or a bad quirk. Just a curious one, maybe.

“Hi, Ronnie,” she said, like she’d just realized you were there.

“Hi, Kirsten,” you said.

And she’d excused herself to the restroom and didn’t come back for like, seven whole minutes, and you wanted her in the gym with you and Dennis. That feeling — the weird pull you felt — she made it okay. And you wanted her back so you could feel okay again. You looked at Dennis. Dennis was looking at Adriano.

“Where’s Kirsten?” you asked after a bit.

“Oh,” Dennis said. “Um — I dunno.”

“I gotta piss,” you announced but it was really obvious you were going to go look for her. You’d gotten up and lingered in the doorway of the gym, and the red lights bore down on you and Dennis, and you’d watched him. His makeup was beginning to run when you left. He took a swig from his water bottle.

You stepped out into the hall. The music was muffled through the walls — not Springsteen yet. Something else, something stupid, like Wonderwall. Kirsten was sitting on the floor, against the lockers. Her makeup was running. Just like Dennis.

“Hi,” you said softly. She looked up at you. She’d been crying. Strands of her auburn hair were falling out of her updo. “Um — are you okay?”

“Yeah.” She looked down at her lap. “This was — this was such a dumb idea. I thought prom was gonna be fun. But Dennis isn’t — fun.”

You nodded, half-hearted.

“Dennis is such a loser,” she said to you. “Why do you hang out with him?”

You shrugged, and sat down next to her. “Well, y’know, he hangs out with me, actually.”

“I’ve seen you sometimes,” she said. “With Adriano and stuff? What’s that like?”

Adriano buys weed from you. All business. But sometimes you get to go to his parties. “It’s really cool,” you told her. She’d moved in closer then, close enough to breathe her fruit punch breath on you. Dennis’ generous application of Drakkar Noir had rubbed off on her a bit and you could still smell it.

“That’s really cool,” she said, clearly not believing a word of it and you could feel that loneliness permeate every little thing she said. But there was a tug in your gut towards her, and with Drakkar Noir and a desperate desire to be _okay_ clouding your senses, you’d said something stupid about getting out of here to somewhere more private and she’d said yes.

And now you’re here in that broom closet, the synths of Dancing in the Dark crashing over you from the gym. And she’s here, too, and she’s kissing you and you’re too glad to say no. The heat is buzzing on your skin, like you’ve got bugs crawling all over you.

“Fitting song title,” Kirsten murmurs against your skin. She bites your lip. She’s good at this.

“Have you done this before?” you ask.

“Duh,” she says. “Have you?”

“Um — yeah,” you lie, tacking on a similar “duh” before she’s reaching down into your pants and squeezing your dick through your underwear. You get the squirming-bugs feeling again, all over you. Your breathing goes uneven.

“Do you like that?” she asks.

You nod, eyes squeezed shut. The only thing you can feel is her now — her hand, her French manicure digging into your skin through your boxers. She slips it inside and starts jacking you off. Part of you recoils, stomach curdling around the sensation, but you’re fully hard now and you want to stay. So you stay.

After a minute or two, she pulls her hand out again. “Here, c’mon, you can touch me, too,” she says. You kiss her and you keep kissing her in the hopes that it’ll cover up the fact that you have no idea what you’re doing, but she’s dragging your hand to where she’s hitched up her skirt. She’s wet. You don’t know how to work with it.

“Do I — do you want me to, like, go inside?” you ask. “Like, into — into you? Now?”

“Okay,” she breathes.

So you hold her close and you do it. Holding your dick in one hand, you slowly push into her. She makes a noise, a quiet little “mmh” against the thrum of the air and the pounding of the bass and your heavy breathing. You bury your nose into her hair and smell her, inhaling Drakkar Noir.

It doesn’t last very long. The act itself. Just you sort of jerking your hips against her, all wet-fish-like and awkward and sad, and you hope you didn’t disappoint her. You’re sweating all over, and it shows on her dress, your damp handprint blooming out against the fabric. The light coming in from the hall doesn’t show her face, and you think it’s for the best.

The crawling feeling shows up again, growing as you get close, swarming and screaming against you, inching inside you into your stomach until you think you’re going to hurl. You pull out and come in your own hand.

Your head drops down against the crook of her neck. It just smells like her now.

“We just, um, banged,” you whisper. The words feel wrong in your mouth. You knew you didn’t _bang_. It was _knowing_ her, pure and dull, almost rote. 

“No shit,” she says. “Um — I should get back to the party.”

She smooths out her dress and goes to fix your gross sweat-print in the bathroom, leaving you alone to wallow. You feel sort of the opposite of _okay_ , and you sit in your un-okay-ness for a bit and just listen to the muted pulse of the music.

Three songs later, you wipe the come off your hand with the edge of your shirt and tuck it back into your pants so no one sees, and you decide to splash your face with cold water and then go back to the gym.

Kirsten isn’t back yet and Dennis is fucking wasted. He’s slumped all over himself on the bleachers, looking bleary-eyed and mopey and stupid. “Whassup, Mac?” he slurs. “Party got fucking lame. Always was fucking lame. Not even the Golden God could make it cool. That’s how lame it is.”

“I couldn’t find Kirsten,” you tell him, feeling a disconnect. Like you’re not actually saying the words. You feel like you’re just sitting on the rafters, getting a bird’s-eye view of yourself, looking down on it all happen.

You worry if you say anything else — anything at all — the rest will come pouring out. In your head you begin to fabricate a lie, in case a rumor gets out. Someone else did it, someone like Tim Murphy, or whoever. You’ll think about it later.

Dennis leans into you, so close he’s untouchable, the vodka heavy in his mouth and rolling onto you in waves. You swallow hard and don’t speak another word.


End file.
